


Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Ugly

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [8]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: 12 Days of Dethmas, M/M, MMA might me morosexual, Scars, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Magnus has this great idea for a mini-revenge, trust him.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Metal Masked Assassin
Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055183
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> **Dec 20- UGLY SWEATERS!**
> 
> Somehow this turned out almost... wholesome? But also kinda foreshadowing of some oh the things that happen in DSR. Make of that what you will.

“Trust me,” Magnus had said. 

“We can’t make our big move yet, so let’s at least fuck with them a little,” Magnus had said. 

“This’ll _really_ make them suffer,” Magnus had said. 

The assassin really shouldn’t have listened to him. It was a ludicrous plan, an absurd waste of his talents of espionage and infiltration to get the packages delivered, and there hadn’t even been a good opportunity to assault, abduct, and torture a Klokateer for information. The whole thing was so stupid that clearly, when it came to the ‘big move,’ Magnus should merely be allowed to _think_ he was in charge of planning. 

But until then, it was still something to do. 

This plan had also relied heavily on Magnus’ ability to forge Offdensen’s handwriting, which he _insisted_ he was a _pro_ at even after all these years. The assassin doubted that—but then, Dethklok weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. If packages showed up at the last moment before an important public appearance with instructions from their manager that the contents _must_ be worn for said appearance, there was a decent chance they would do it. 

So that’s how the assassin found himself crammed on the disused couch in front of the tv in the back of his lair, cracking open a couple of beers with his teeth for himself and a human scarecrow who didn’t know how to button a damn shirt. 

“To revenge,” Magnus crowed, clinking the tops of their bottles together before taking a swig. 

_You’re so stupid_ , the assassin thought, but merely grunted and drank his own beer. He had to admit, reluctantly, that Magnus’ enthusiasm was a little infectious. Not that he _cared_ , but if it did indeed work then there would at least be the satisfaction of a job well done. 

On screen, the MCs of whatever the hell award show this was had just finished up a rambling introduction speech. They were both dressed in black and white formal wear, very clean-cut and respectable. 

The curtain behind them rose; the applauding, shouting crowd suddenly went silent from shock, and Magnus whooped loudly at the sight of all five band members wearing some of the most god-awful ugly Christmas sweaters ever to exist. 

“Look at that one,” Magnus said, elbowing the assassin’s arm and pointing eagerly. “Look at the one on Explosion, that stupid douchebag! It’s got a 3D reindeer coming out the front _and_ the back, _and_ it lights up! He looks like a fucking idiot! Yeah, that’s right, you’re an idiot, I said it! That’s what you get for punching my eye out, you bastard!”

It was irritating, but god, it was kind of amusing to watch the other man get all worked up about something so fundamentally pointless. The crowd was booing the fundamentally un-brutal attire, and Magnus bounced against him on the couch every time another crowd-hurled insult was discernible in the audio. Aside from causing grievous bodily harm, this was more human contact than the assassin had experienced in years. Since before his brother had been murdered by the fucknuts getting booed off the stage right now. 

“Hey big guy, what do you think?” Magnus was leaning across into his personal space to wave a hand in front of his face, searching for some sort of reaction besides the default glower. “Is this fucking hilarious or what?!”

Instinctively, the assassin snatched at the wrist invading his bubble and jerked so hard that Magnus dropped his beer with a crash of breaking glass and fell across the larger man’s lap with a grunt. Glaring down at him, the assassin squeezed until he felt bones shift slightly under his fingers. 

“Get out of my fucking face,” he growled. 

Magnus winced a smile up at him. “You know, you look like a lot less of a freaky motherfucker without that mask on, even with all the scars and shit.”

That took the assassin by surprise, so much so that he lessened (but didn’t release) his grip. “. . . What.”

“It’s badass, man. If I had scars like that, I’d show ‘em off.”

The assassin’s eyes narrowed. “Like you show off your eye?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

He yanked Magnus further across his chest and tapped on his chest with a heavy finger, touching skin and chest hair through the open shirt. “So if I gave you a scar here—” he scraped a ragged nail over his sternum on that skinny chest, leaving a red trail “—you’d still wear your shirt open all the time like a tool?”

“Like a _cool_ tool,” Magnus shot back, grinning wolfishly. 

The assassin simply had no words for how much of a moron Magnus sounded like, saying that. It was flat-out incorrect, because only the actual inflicting of future scars was cool—that parting of flesh, the spray and ooze of blood striving to harden into a scab. 

Plus, fresh scars sunburned like a bitch. 

Magnus took advantage of his pause by squirming around to sit sideways on his lap, snag the assassin’s beer that had been shoved between the couch cushions to keep from spilling, and take a big swig from it. His bony ass dug into the assassin’s thighs with just the right amount of irritating discomfort. On the TV, the booing from the tv had stopped because the show had gone to a commercial. 

The assassin glanced down, grimaced, and asked, “Do you have a fucking boner over ugly Christmas sweaters, or the idea of me cutting you?” 

“Yes,” Magnus said. 

“. . . You are _painfully_ stupid,” the assassin grumbled. “Get your shirt the rest of the way off and take off your pants before I snap your neck.”

After all, it _was_ a while before they could make their big move against Dethklok. In the meantime, might as well find something to do.


End file.
